


The Stride of Her Step, the Curl of Her Lips

by veausy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Always Female Sam, Angst, Dean-Centric, F/M, Freeform, Incest, Sibling Incest, Suffering Dean, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-12-15 01:57:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11796054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veausy/pseuds/veausy
Summary: Dean deals.





	The Stride of Her Step, the Curl of Her Lips

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I love girl!Sam, what do you want me to say? ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> All mistakes made are mine, because I cried as I typed this, while rewatching 5.22.

When he woke up, it was from asphyxiation. The air in the car was hot and humid, smelling vaguely of mold and salt, and Dean’s chest heaved with the effort of drawing the last dregs of oxygen from it.

He sat up, eyes struggling to focus on anything around him, back screaming with pain. He must have passed out several hours ago.

His hands slapped vaguely at the seats, reached for a door handle and yanked it, letting cold night air in. Gulping breaths shook him uncontrollably, and he tumbled out, back scraping against dirt and gravel as his shirt rode up. He clenched trembling hands in the grass to stay still and lay there, evening out his breathing.

He didn’t feel drunk, wasn’t hungover; his breath was rank but not in the way it was after bars, when the cheap food and drink clogged him up and made him feel dirty all along his insides. His head was pounding, his knees were cramped. One side of his right foot ached, a vague pulsing pain that reverberated through his leg.

When he opened his eyes, he panicked, terrified he was blind or blindfolded, but then the night sky twinkled once, twice, and he focused on the tiny pinpricks of light.

There was no sound except for the soft whistle of wind through trees in the distance, the calm of quiet existence engulfing him. He tried to remember where he was, but his mind felt fuzzy and heavy, like he was drugged, like he’d been smacked around. His face felt stiff with tear tracks, some running down to his chin, some disappearing into his temples. He rubbed a hand through his scruff, guessing it had been about a week since he’d last shaved, maybe as long since he’d last showered.

He turned his head to the side; the beige Ford Taurus he’d fallen out of felt suddenly familiar to him, though he wasn’t sure why. One tire looked deflated, and he made a note to check on it later. Wondered why the car was so ugly. It should have been black, why wasn’t it black?

The throbbing ache in his foot intensified for a second, and then went away. He stretched his toes weakly, but otherwise didn’t move. His throat felt raw when he swallowed, made him wonder if he’d been screaming.

A sudden gust of wind whipped over his face and through his shirt, and he realized he had nothing on over it. Goosebumps stood up on his arms. Why wasn’t he wearing anything else?

It was July, his mind supplied. It was July, and Sam was still dead.

**\--**

He didn’t actually leave Stull after the hole closed up. Bobby had tried, on that first day, to beckon him gently, and then roughly, but Dean was unresponsive. With hushed whispers to Cas to keep an eye on him, Bobby had thrown a few more looks over his shoulder, climbed into his truck, and rumbled away.

Dean didn’t know what Cas did then. The sun set while Dean sat in the grass and stared at where Sam had been. When the sun rose again, he hadn’t moved. His legs went numb from how he kneeled, then started aching, and then went numb again for good. As the hours slid by, so he lost track of most of his body.

Toward nightfall on the second day, there was a quiet flutter of wings, soft footfalls behind him. Another flutter, and more silence. That night, he started digging. His hands were bleeding and his nails were ripped out, but within a few hours, he had a hole several feet deep. He tried to climb into it. When he didn’t fit, he kept digging.

On the third day, Cas stood over him for a while as he sobbed into the dirt, then gripped his shoulders and zapped him into the car.

Later that week, Dean was in Connecticut.

Another week, Wisconsin.

Another week, Alabama.

He didn’t bother with motels, slept in the car and ate whenever he remembered to, or whenever he had to stop for gas, didn’t taste any of it, barely noticed what he was biting into. Threw it all up, then did it all over again.

Soon, the aimless driving started taking a toll on his Baby, and he drove to Sioux Falls. Bobby wasn’t home, all the better, and Dean left her parked in a secret corner behind the house, covered her with tarp and patted her flank as he scoured the yard for a knockoff. The Taurus was ugliest thing he saw.

By August, he had driven over thirty thousand miles with no destination, and he couldn’t bear to stop.

He’d made a promise to Sam, and he would keep it, he would, but not now. Not now.

**\--**

Three days without a shower, two days of sleeping parked in a dark corner beside the town library, and thirteen hours of scuffling through the fourth floor’s selection of grimoires, but Dean felt awake for the first time as his eyes finally landed on it.

The ingredients were so simple, he wondered how it could be so easy.

He had Angelica root in the trunk and obsidian within easy reach. A call here or there would get him the pennyroyal and the yarrow. He’d ask Bobby for the rest.

He ripped the page out of the book noisily, careless of the judging eyes that turned on him, and sprinted out of the library. For the first time in seven months, he felt himself occupying his body. His hands were rough and calloused, and his jeans needed a wash. He had one set of clean clothes waiting in the trunk, and he was practically vibrating with anticipation of wearing it.

There was snow underfoot, and as he approached the car, a few flakes landed on his face, making him glance up. The sky was twilight gray and the air felt crisp, like he could reach out and crinkle it between his fingers. He looked out at the road ahead of him as he turned up the heat, saw the potholes and the chunks of asphalt that had crumbled over years of neglect.

He may have imagined it, but as he slammed on the gas, the Taurus drove faster and smoother than it had since June.

**\--**

He took a swig of whiskey as he began, and finished two bottles as he continued. Four beers after that, he felt ready.

Once everything was mashed and poured into the marble basin, it only took three drops of his blood to close the deal. Dean wondered what circumstances had made a witch come up with the spell, because she hadn’t been fucking around. Once the third drop landed, the ground disappeared from under his feet and reappeared again with a vengeance, knocking him to his knees brutally.

Groaning from pain, he caught himself on one hand, the other reaching pointlessly toward his knees, feeling them creak from the impact. It took several minutes for him to unfold himself and stand.

His eyes roved around him, cataloguing the old yellow dresser in the corner, the two tiny beds on opposite sides of the room, the lone window centered between them and covered halfway with a lined shade that might have been white a long time ago.

There was nobody else there with him, but his eyes fell on the banged up black duffel under one bed, and warmth spread outwards from his chest, the kind he remembered feeling when Sam smiled at him over countless formica diner tables, her laughter light and unburdened.

He let himself pace a bit, lifting random objects from visible surfaces and dropping them back. It felt like clutter, more than décor; random stacks of unused printer paper, a chain of ribbed silver paper clips, a hairbrush, a California state outline keychain, and a half-empty bottle of painkillers looking more like forgotten items he’d see on a motel nightstand than in an apartment that someone actually inhabited.

There was a very old cream colored phone nailed to the wall, its curly cord tangled and bent out of shape just like he remembered from decades ago, and he wondered if it was still attached there now, ten years later. If anyone had touched it since Sam. She’d tried to reach him once, at Bobby’s, the first Christmas she was away, but he’d been on a hunt in Virginia, wouldn’t have his own cell phone for another six months.

He wondered what she would have said if he’d picked up. He wondered if she’d played with the cord, been the one who tangled it so irreparably. He walked backwards until his knees hit the mattress and sat down on it, checked the clock on the wall. There was a frilly pink calendar hanging just under it, a poster of a boy band plastered at the top, tacky glitter pen scribbling notes all over the margins. Definitely not Sam’s.

After a second of staring at the date, he finally noticed the loud, pounding music vibrating through the wall. Scrubbing a hand through his hair, he opened the door.

The light in the hallway was dimmer, and the air was hot with the clammy quality of too many bodies stuffed in too small a space. He edged by groups of girls and a few guys, all laughing and drinking from plastic cups, a yell or two resounding over the noise, but his eyes didn’t stick to anything, swimming blindly over every new face, still searching, greedy.

He found her in the staircase. Bottles of liquor and soda lined the bottom steps, large spills already soaking into the ratty blue carpet. She had her back turned to him, but he knew.

Her shiny olive skin was peeking out of a tight white dress, something he’d never seen, never been meant to see, and her hair was longer than she’d ever kept it on the road, swaying down over her shoulder blades in tight, neat curls. One of her arms balanced a 2-liter bottle of Coke as the other struggled to pour whiskey into a cup, and he watched her contort to keep it all from falling, the corners of his mouth lifting.

Once she was done, she carefully set the bottles down again and took a sip as she turned back around, eyes catching on him. He tipped his head up. He felt electrified, scared. “Hey.”

She lowered her cup, uncovering the mole on her cheek and the pale scar on her chin – invisible in this light, but he knew. “Sorry, do I know you?” Her voice was so high, it pulled at his insides. She was just a kid. Barely a year out of the old life, not even a year into her new one. Her eyes slanted in that familiar way, roaming over his face and his clothing accusingly. He was glad he hadn’t shaved.

He lifted two hands out to his sides innocently and stepped over to the wall with a smile. “No.” She didn’t. She never would. Who he was now didn’t exist when she was still alive, never would. He wasn’t real.

She turned with him, instinctively keeping her back away from him, legs in a defensive stance that didn’t match the relaxed material of her dress. He let himself drink her in, wondered how she’d hid this big chunk of herself from him. Her eyes were painted something dark, making them look deep and bigger than he remembered, her lips shined with gloss, and her feet were encased in strappy gold heels that made her nearly tower over him. Each toenail was painted, and she looked tanner than ever. In fact, he thought, looking up at her face, she glowed. 

His ribcage might have cracked open, he didn’t know. Something broke. Irredeemable. He wanted to go back and redo _everything_.

As he reached around her to pour himself something, she finally moved, slapping the cup out of his hand and slamming him into the wall, arm twisted behind his back. He panted from the exertion, waiting, but she just stepped back, softly murmuring, “Sorry. I – I’m enrolled in self-defense at the gym.” He watched her flush with awe. “Got a little overexcited.”

He grinned. At least she could still take care of herself, short dresses and high heels notwithstanding.

As he leaned to grab a cup again, she flattened him against the wall again, mouth landing wet and soft over his own, and he froze. Her hair fell over his cheeks and tickled his neck, the faint recognizable smell of cheap hairspray enveloping him, and her hands were gently wrapped around his chin. When he didn’t respond, she stepped away, fast, like she was about to run. They looked at each other silently, the din of the hallway he’d come from fading out slightly as his heartbeat pounded in his ears. “Sorry,” she whispered again, and made to turn, like she was leaving, and he couldn’t – he couldn’t –

So he grabbed her by the back of the neck and dragged her in, tongues tangling messily, and one of her knees knocked into his, her arms coming up to grab onto his shoulders, the warmth of her body slotting into his space as familiar as the sight of her face and the sound of her voice.

A loud bark of laughter startled them, followed by the slam of the door as it opened, and three jocks walked in, complete with letterman jackets and sideways starter caps, leering at them. Dean shoved her in front and walked her back to her room, slamming the door shut behind them and locking it. In the silence that followed, they stared at each other again. He felt hot all over, cold in the deepest parts of himself. He was both frozen in place and aching to reach for her, thoughts tangled by alcohol and grief and relief, because she was _right there_ again. Right there.

She made the decision for him, lifting one foot behind her and wrenching the shoe off, repeating with the other. She threw them to the side, the clunk of their fall resounding through the empty air, and walked toward him, just two inches shorter than him now, just the way he remembered her.

In blurred, rapid moments, she was on him again, mouth hot and fingers eager, pulling at his clothes, but it was erratic, shaky, and he pulled away. She turned wide eyes on him, and he thought back to the years before she’d left.

“Have you –?“

She looked away instantly, eyes catching on her hands tangled in the buttons on his chest, face turning red as she hid it under a mane of thick hair. He brushed it aside gently, curling it behind her ear, and tilted her face back up to him. She stepped minutely closer, lips parting, and he couldn’t help it, ran his fingers over her cheeks, the back of her head, the dip where her neck met her shoulders. She was a stranger to him now.

The music outside got impossibly louder, and something hit the door, shaking it on its ancient hinges. He nodded to the other bed, “When’s she back?”

Sam swallowed. “She went home for the weekend.”

Dean nodded resolutely, the pounding in his head easing a little at the nervous look on her face, felt some sober part of himself swim to the surface and look at his little sister. In a few quick moves, he hoisted her up with her legs around his hips, walked them to her bed, and dropped on top of her. For long stretches of moments that he couldn’t recall later, they made out like horny teenagers, his hands exploring her skin, pulling the dress up slowly enough that she got comfortable with it, teeth biting gently – only ever gently – at her jaw, her neck, her shoulders, hands pulling at her hair and hips slotted between her legs solidly.

When she wrenched her mouth away to pant at the cool breeze coming in from the window, he pulled himself up and gazed at her. She looked debauched, legs spread wide and arms straining up and to the side, hands grasping at whatever sheets they could catch on. One shoulder of her dress slipped down over her arm, baring the top of her chest, and he stared numbly at the pebbled nipple that he’d only before seen in passing or after grievous injury to her ribs. It was real now, concrete color and size and texture, where before it was a part of Sam he could imagine away, like the part of her that wore short dresses and moaned from arousal and spread her legs.

He leaned down and wrapped his lips around it.

More fuzzy moments, just the sounds of the party coming through the door and their uneven breathing. When Sam started struggling with his pants, he grabbed her wrists and stilled her, mouth traveling over her stomach just under the hem of her dress, silky black boy shorts teasing him. He grinned against her skin, the familiarity of her discomfort with femininity so visceral that it made him want to laugh and give her a wedgie. He’d seen those boy shorts in packs of six at every Wal-Mart they’d ever been to, and it figured that even under the tiny white dress, Sam would still be _Sam_.

He climbed further down the bed, pulling the strap of her underwear down on one side, biting at the jut of her hipbone, listening to her whine above him. She thrashed as he explored the junctures of her legs attaching to her hips, the hot V of her legs, kissed down and then up the insides of her thighs, “Come on, come on, please,” a steady mantra under her breath.

As he moved to slip her shorts off, he looked at them, and a switch flipped again. This was _Sam_.

But she wanted this, and she wanted him, and he would give her anything, because he couldn’t give her anything anymore, she wasn’t there to give anything to, and if she told him to pull his intestines out through his throat and hang himself with them, he would, and this didn’t matter – it didn’t matter –

With his hands wrapped tight in the thin cotton, he ripped the shorts in half, tearing them off her body and leaving the remains to pool under her.

His mouth closed over her a second later.

She let out a stuttered gasp, legs closing quickly around his head, trapping him with his nose buried in soft curls, her hands moving instinctively to grab at his hair, and he let his tongue spread flat over her opening, the taste and smell so suddenly familiar, though he knew he’d never been here before. He snuck one finger in, gently probing, and she was tight – tighter than anyone had ever been in the entire history of his life, he knew, he just knew – so he lapped and nibbled and kissed all over her skin until she was quivering, and then he added another finger.

He might have been there for hours, but it was heady, the rich taste of her and the smell that was so uniquely _Sammy_ and also something that sent a thrill through him, made him want to rut into the mattress. He would not be her first – he _wouldn’t_ – that was something she deserved to keep to herself, to give to Jess, to own and feel and know without him, but he’d give her this.

As he felt her hands tighten in his hair, he trapped her clit between his teeth and gently pulled on it, fingers working into her faster, until she keened loudly, body convulsing and knees rising to her chest, opening her up to him even more.

He opened his eyes, watching the trail of a drop of sweat as it cascaded down between her breasts and pooled between her ribs, wanted to reach up and lick it off, but she was coming down now, and he worked her through it, fingers so wet that the sound of their motion was obscene in the silence, making his dick jump again, aching.

As her breathing slowed, he removed his fingers and sucked on them, savoring the taste for the last time, then cleaned her up with his tongue, slow and meditative. When he looked up, she was watching him through hooded eyes, looking anxious. He scooted up just slightly, enough to pillow his head on her stomach, and rubbed his hands over her sides, feeling the skin respond with goose bumps. With one hand, he pulled a blanket up over her, trailing just behind the kisses he laid up to her jaw.

By the time she noticed he was standing, her eyes were almost closed, but she sat up, grabbing at his arm, “Don’t you want -?”

He shook his head, smiling at her, and brushed her hair away from her face. She watched him suspiciously as he hovered, unstable on his feet, still addled with drink, but then he stepped out into the hall and she inhaled deeply. As he was about to shut the door, he thought he heard her say, “You smell the same,” but he must have imagined it.

He passed out sometime later on a different floor of the dorm and woke up back in the motel next to the empty marble basin.

**\--**

He had not had a solid meal in weeks, but he spent the entire next day by the toilet, retching from the alcohol along with everything else.

His head, chest, knees, and stomach were screaming, but the worst part was his thoughts, circling over the feel of Sam’s wetness on his mouth and her sweat sliding between their skin. He could hear the sound of her sobs and moans echoing between his ears, like a song he didn’t want to remember.

Not only had he molested his little sister, but he had done it while fifteen years older than her, a predator, a pathetic waste of a man who never had potential. He’d marred her irreversibly, and who even knew how much he’d fucked up the timeline? Sam sure as hell would have called him, asking him why he’d come to Stanford to eat her out for a night, if that had ever happened – but now it had.  

Had she known?

She must have. Just as he would recognize a sixty-year-old version of his dad, a version that had never really existed, there was no way she didn’t realize he was who he was. Who the fuck was he?

Who would do what he had done? What did that make him?

He convulsed again, just spit and stomach acid dripping out of him as he desperately wished to die, and it was only when he collapsed back on the porcelain rim that he realized his face was wet. He wiped at his eyes ineffectively and let his body fall to the tile floor, head slamming against the surface hard enough for his teeth to chatter.

He wanted to sit up and slam down it again. Hard enough to pass out. Hard enough to concuss. Who’d wake him up every hour then? Who’d check his focus by sticking a long finger in front of his face? Who’d pick him up while he was passed out and tuck him into bed? There was nobody left.

Everything began with Sam and everything ended with her.

If he really had gone back to the past, then what he’d done had happened. It had happened before he’d gone. On Friday, March 29, 2002, Sam fucked around with someone who looked like her brother but did not exist, and she never told Dean about it.

He started sobbing before he even noticed that he wanted to, long harsh wails ripped out of him as he pounded his fists into the floor and rattled his brain inside his head, praying for oblivion. It never came.

He ached with the need to know if she knew, he had to ask her, he had to make sure. But Sam was gone, and she’d taken everything with her.

When he blacked out several hours later, still on the bathroom floor, he was cold, and his limbs were numb, and his head was empty.

**\--**

From January to February, he drove the distance from Seattle to Orlando three times, stocking up on ingredients. He dug his sources out of the ground, found psychics and witches and werewolves he didn’t even bother to gank, just taking what he needed and moving on again.

By the time he sat down in between two queens near a highway outside of Pittsburgh, he had enough juice to travel three more times.

Most of the money he finessed through quick and messy games of pool or darts went toward paying for the herbs, which were impossible to obtain except from neat little old ladies who had a mean right hook or a rifle nearby, so he came by them honestly.

The last two dollars that currently sat in his pocket were designated for a meal at McDonald’s, but he’d forgotten. Now he sat looking over his stash and felt powerful. This was what would sustain him.

**\--**

This time when he landed, he stuck both arms out to break his fall. His knees still banged against the ground a little, but he was getting the hang of it.

He looked up to find himself in the middle of a deserted campus street, orange and red brick colors swimming in his vision, a long palm tree or two sticking up over blurry shingles. It was late afternoon, and the air bit enough that he hazarded to guess it was winter.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, he started a brisk walk toward what he recognized as a library, the only building around whose lights seemed to be on.

He saw her as soon as he walked in. She was behind the front desk, buried deep in a thick textbook, nose so close to the pages that he wondered how she wasn’t going blind. He cleared his throat as he approached, something eager kicking up in his chest.

When she looked up, he couldn’t figure out why it made him choke to look at her. His chest constricted in a way it hadn’t since the day before Stull, like he knew this was his last time seeing her and he couldn’t do anything about it.

“Hey,” he said quietly, though it looked like they were alone in the entire building.

She smiled, tentative, trying to place him for long moments that made his heart jump to his throat. Finally, she blushed and looked back down at her book, where he fingers were fiddling with the corner of a page. “Hey.” He’d seen that look before, shy and ashamed, like she was an imposter in her own skin, when bartenders and cashiers would hit on her as they breezed through towns on the trail of monsters.

He leaned down, elbows resting on the edge of her desk, feeling his mouth curl as he waited for her to make eye contact. It was a wonder to look at her at all.

“What time’s your break?”

She looked up at the inflection on the end of his sentence, eyes searching his for something she recognized, and he wasn’t scared. He wanted her to see him. “I’m free now,” she said breathily, standing from her rickety mauve chair, and reached across the width of the desk to pull him in by the collar, mouth fastening to his.

He vaulted over the divide, pulling her down to the floor and straddling her, her wrists caught above her head, his mouth exploring hers for long minutes, or an eternity.

When she managed to flip him over, he wasn’t even hard, no urgency or heat to his movements, just warmth and comfort, and when he fingered her open and made her beg so loud it was echoing all around the hall, he realized he was sober for the first time in weeks, and maybe he would never drink again.

**\--**

The third time, he landed right outside her door, knees protected this time by thick wiry carpet, and he was knocking on the old stained wood before he even got to his feet.

She pulled him in by his shirt, pushing and shoving until he fell backwards onto her mattress, and it was only when she landed on him with her hand over his mouth that he noticed the lumpy shape in the other bed.

With her fingers still bruising his mouth, she started tugging at his belt, but he flipped them over and started pulling up her shirt instead, and they continued to flip one another over for the next few minutes, breathless laughter and creaks of mattress hinges and rustling cloth. At one point, he was caught under her arm with his face next to her chest, so he reached up, pulled the neck of her top down, and closed his mouth around her nipple.

She melted, hands coming up to cradle his face, and he felt something detonate inside him, something hot and all-encompassing, like something had just slotted into place for the first time. He licked up her chest and into her mouth again, hands buried in her hair and body curled around hers.

Sometime later, she pulled away and brought their foreheads together, their breaths mingling. “Who are you?”

He closed his eyes. “Whoever … whoever you want.”

She pushed on his shoulders until he was leaning back against the wall, her legs bracketing his hips as she leaned into him. Her hands rose, tracing over his face so gently it almost tickled. Her fingers dipped into the hollows of his cheeks, curled around his temples, tapped along his eyelids, and he felt so full. “I know you,” she breathed.

He shuddered, forehead falling to her chest, soundless sobs escaping him as he wrapped his arms so tight around her waist that she shifted. Nothing had ever felt as good as this. Nothing ever would.

**\--**

The next time, he landed on his feet, and he was proud of himself for all of a second before he spotted her from around a tree, walking hand in hand with Jess. The guy was huge, as tall as Dean and just as freckled, streaks of sunwashed blond in his hair.

Dean moved behind a large bush, a pounding starting in the back of his head, and he was wrenched suddenly to the inescapable present, somewhere years down the line, in a dilapidated motel room on the outskirts of Reno, where he was passed out on sheets that smelled of blight and death, in clothes that hadn’t been laundered in too long, the empty room as miserable and doomed as its lone inhabitant.

The sun was bright overhead, and Dean’s eyes strained to follow the path of the couple as they passed by him, and Sam was dead.

She was dead, and she wasn’t coming back.

**\--**

In May, he wanted to forget. A year without Sam was unfathomable, incomprehensible. He shaved quickly in the bathroom, the bleak yellow light casting shadows on his face that made him look gaunt and his skin stretched too tight. He looked pale, made a note to find someplace with decent electricity next time, maybe running water and clean towels, too.

He overshot with the Angelica root, landing square in the middle of 1999. It looked like the Southwest, pale pink buildings and large plastic-framed billboards, cactuses and palm trees strewn about as though by afterthought.

The motel to his right was familiar, like something memorable must have happened here, but his mind was coming up blank.

He walked right up to the door, number 9, the tail flicking out low with a serif on the end. He pulled on the knob and it released, no struggle at all.

Sam – sixteen-year-old Sam – sat up quickly on her bed near the wall, hands dropping a paperback and raising a handgun instead.

Dean raised his hands in mollification – or supplication.

Her eyes narrowed on him, and he drank her in again, younger now, more resilient, still with a sparkle that escaped her not long before she went to California. Her legs were stretched in front of her, knees raised into the air now slightly as she tensed in preparation for a fight. Her bare skin shined in the light streaming from the open door, and how had he never noticed the smoothness of her legs before? How had he never even looked?

“Sammy, it’s me,” he tried, voice gentle and high enough to be recognizable for her. It was still too low of a register and her face scrunched up, guarded but curious. “It’s me.”

Her finger wrapped around the trigger when he attempted to take a step over the threshold, so he stepped back. By complete accident, his eyes left her and landed on his own shape on the bed next to her, covered by the blanket that her feet were buried in. He didn’t think he’d ever have slept through something like this back then; he must have been drunk or on medication.

Her gun didn’t waver, but in a small voice, she said, “Who the hell are you?”

“I mean no harm,” he placated. “I’m not armed. See, I’m going to keep my hands up like this.” She watched him. “What’s wrong with your brother, Sam?”

She flinched, silent. With one shaking arm still aiming the gun at him, she reached out with the other and brushed the sheets gently away from Dean’s face, taking a quick look before focusing back on him. “He’s fine,” she snarled, “what the fuck are you talking about?”

“I meant,” he said softly, a smile tugging at his face despite himself, “why’s he out? He should be the one pointing a gun at me right now.”

Sam’s jaw clenched and she began to stand slowly, coming around the bed, still facing him, until she hid her brother from his sight. “If you don’t get away from our room right now, I will shoot,” she said.

Dean glanced down. There was a thick line of salt along the slat of the door, and it unknotted the tension, making him nod once quickly and close the door, striding out of sight. Hiding behind a corner, he heard the door open again, imagined she was standing there surveying for a moment, before it shut once more and the lock fell into place. When he walked back over after sundown, he looked through the open window at the scene.

Dean was still on his side in the bed, twenty years old and sleeping off what must have been a wendigo injury while doped up on cheap morphine, and Sam was wrapped around him, playing with the sheets and the covers and his shirt, switching her attention from one to another in what seemed like an interminable loop. Her hands were shaking, and her lips were dropping whispers close to his year, nearly caressing his skin.

The look on her face was tragic, the tension in her body was palpable.

What made him stumble back, however, and fall onto the dusty gravel of the parking lot, was that Sam knew him when he’d come to Stanford. She must have. There was no longer any doubt. She’d known who he was, and she’d wanted him.

**\--**

Two weeks later, he overshot again, but he was tired, muscles weak from exhaustion, and he couldn’t bring himself to care. Anytime when Sam was alive was good enough.

He landed in a motel room, on the floor between two beds. There were two small forms huddled on the mattress by the wall, and by looking at the larger, he realized he must have come to 1993.

Treading carefully, he stepped closer, and he saw tiny fists buried in the shirt of the Dean in front of him. He must have been fourteen, still so small and barely growing until his sudden spurt over Christmas break. His shirt was rucked up nearly to his neck and Sam’s round cheek was pressed to his bare chest, her arms above her. There was a hand placed protectively over the crown of her head, but both bodies were out like a light, their synchronized wheezes coalescing and buzzing through the air.

He smiled, settling down on the empty bed and feeling content just to watch. This motel room was fixed in his memories, because they spent nearly a month in it alone, no phone calls, no checking in, no extra money. By the last week, Dean was sneaking into the store across the street and shoplifting candy bars and cans of soda, the only objects of sustenance he had any way to hide on his person.

It was a miserable, miserable month.

He relaxed against the wall, the buzz in the air calming him, lulling him with its familiarity, and his eyes closed.

When he woke up, he was still in the room, and the air still hummed with sleep. He sat up, checking the clock, and realized several hours had passed. He wondered, absently, and without much interest, how much juice he’d put in the spell, how long he’d get to sit here and feel the tranquility he’d forgotten so many years ago.

Just then, Sammy shifted, eyes opening just barely and roving over his shape, unfocused. “Dah,” she mumbled on a yawn, turning over slightly. Dean froze, but she seemed to be too deep in sleep, had simply shuffled up higher along her brother’s body, digging her nose into the crook of his neck and taking a deep inhale.

Dean felt his jaw slacken as he watched, awe threatening to overwhelm him as he realized how deep it ran for Sam, and for how long. As he watched, she sleepily nudged her nose down the column of his throat and then dropped one quick kiss on the bare skin, allowing herself an intimacy he had never noticed, nor known to rebuff.

He felt blindsided, reeling in his discovery, wanting to grasp at it as much as to run away. Before he could focus on either urge, the floor shifted under him, and he landed heavily on the stained floor of his motel. He stared up at the ceiling, sleep evading him, until sun broke through the blinds.

**\--**

The time, he didn’t have the strength to stick his landing, dropped like a sack of bones on the ground and groaned. It was daylight, faint chirps of birds in the sky. He squinted up.

Sam stood towering over him, face furious. “I told you not to leave the room, Dean!”

He moaned as he sat up, clutching his back and cricking his neck. Sam was right behind him, holding him firmly and raising him to his feet, angsty huffs escaping her every so often. She turned him to the motel and marched him to the nearest door, tension radiating from her body.

“Why the hell were you outside anyway? I left for, like, two minutes.”

Dean swiveled in her arms, holding onto her wrists, and blocked the doorknob from her reach. “Sammy, what day is it?”

“It’s fucking _Tuesday_ ,” she spat, keys jangling in her pocket as she dug them out. Dean took a shaky breath.

“What year?”

She finally glanced at his face and stepped back, curling in on herself slightly. “Shit, _what_?”

They stared at one another, the moments stretching between them, and he drank her in again. She was a new Sammy every time. Big blue circles sunk deep under the skin below her eyes, making her look haggard. Her hair was a mess, something wiry and tangled in place of what had once been silk, and deep lines etched themselves into her forehead and around her mouth. She looked destroyed.

“Am I – am I dead?” he tried, voice small.

She blinked. “The fuck.”

“Is my year up?”

Her eyes flashed. “No,” she snarled, “and I’m not going to _let_ you be dead.”

“Why are y –“ A loud smash interrupted him from the other side of the door, followed by a low groan. Sam’s eyes jumped to the door, and before he could even step aside, she lifted one foot to break it in, letting it swing on its hinges to slam into the wall.

His own body lay contorted on the ground, smashed under a bed frame that must have somehow lifted off the ground and jumped him. It looked almost comical, if not for the giant metal pipe sticking out of his chest and the pool of blood rapidly widening around him.

Dean watched without breathing as Sam nearly teleported from beside him to the body, tears pouring freely down her face as she cradled her brother’s head and murmured, “No, no, no, no,” in a loop, burying her face in his hair.

This had never happened. How had he traveled to a time that never happened?

Between one blink and the next, it was like the world reset itself. The broken door reassembled itself in front of him, closed and with a messy coat of chipping paint. The sun jumped from being low in the sky to what he assumed was east, fresh white clouds enveloping it. The sounds from the street changed within a second to different ones, like the car in the middle of a honk suddenly got vacuumed up and replaced by the ding of a bike that was dropped in to take its place.

From behind the door, he heard Asia start to play, a faint smile ghosting over his face as he realized the ancient-looking room had a radio clock. A hard smack ended the music and silence stretched. He strained to listen through the door, his hand tugging at the handle uselessly.

His own voice wafted over from the opposite side of the room faintly, feet away from where his body had lain just seconds ago, “Come on, up and at ‘em, Sammy!”

He winced. This was that day Sam had told him about, the one that wouldn’t end. A random continuum of time she couldn’t escape from, which tossed her around like a rag doll. He stared at his feet, wondering why he was immune. Was he not really here? Was he dreaming this back in the motel, rather than actually standing here in his body?

There was a soft pad of feet he couldn’t place, and suddenly the door opened, and he was staring into Sam’s wide eyes. She looked like she was both relieved and terrified to see him. She was not in the plaids and blues she’d covered herself in before, now just looking wrinkled and soft in one of his old shirts, her hair in disarray. When he glanced into the room, he realized his copy had disappeared into the shower.

“Are you real?” Sam breathed, her hand reaching out gingerly into the space between them.

Not sure of the answer himself, he caught her hand in his own, gently pulling so that her fingers landed on his chest. She felt warm, solid. “Do you – do you remember me?” From a few seconds ago, he didn’t say. From Stanford, where I ruined us both.

She nodded almost imperceptibly, eyes still glued to his and mouth open on a small “oh.” Her eyes still looked sunken, her posture weary. “Who are you?”

He smiled at her, knowing she knew, knowing she was grasping at anything. “I’m Dean.”

“Are you,” she swallowed loudly, “are you from the future?”

He didn’t want to say, didn’t want to tell her anything, didn’t want to screw up the past, but then his hand tugged on her shoulder, bringing her tumbling into him, and he wrapped her in his arms and felt her melt into his skin, one long breath leaking out of her like she had finally found peace. “You save me, Sammy,” he whispered into her hair. You save me and you die for it, you save me and leave me here alone, you save me and I’m still barely alive. She smelled just as he remembered, the shampoo of the day always different, but that sweet honeysuckle scent that couldn’t be manufactured by magic or mankind, it stayed the same. “You save me.”

**\--**

He must have landed in an alley, if the putrid stench was anything to go by. There was almost no light around, just a weak stream of gray filtering in from the street at the end. He couldn’t guess when he’d been taken to, didn’t really care.

His measurements had grown haphazard, always an approximation now, rather than the steadfast precision he’d forced himself to follow at the beginning.

Every second he spent in his own time was deadly, making his thoughts circle and his eyes jump to his guns, the considering thoughts turning more determined each time. If he ran out of ingredients, he’d eat his Ruger. He would. He would.

He knew he wouldn’t. Wherever his soul would go, Sammy wouldn’t be there, and that was irremediable. There was nobody in Heaven or Hell anymore who could help him. On earth, at least, he had the spell.

The call of the past was so sweet; he didn’t know that he could have parted with it anyway. There was always an urgency now, like a dying man crawling endlessly toward an oasis, scraping himself bloody on the cold ground but desperate for just a single drop. He wanted to see her face contorted in every emotion, he wanted to see her from every angle he’d never looked at when she was alive.

Where had this hunger come from? He’d never know. His love for her had always been one step over the line, just a bit too desperate, just a bit too dependent. He remembered staring at her lifeless body the night after Cold Oak, the way time itself seemed to stumble and fall right in front of him, struggling to keep churning when there was nothing to keep going for.

But this? It was real, complete. Her touch was the best thing in the world, her reluctant smiles, her soul blooming under his hands as he gave her what she wanted, intimacy, attention. And what a rush, to know that that was all she’d ever wanted. He hadn’t kissed her since the third time he’d traveled, hadn’t even tried.

The person he was for thirty-two years was someone else, someone he didn’t recognize at all. He’d had his back turned to Sam as he took the whole world on, like the world needed more of him than she did. He knew better, now.

A faint scuffle at the end of the alley got him to his feet, hiding behind a dumpster with less care than strictly advisable. One of his shoes hit a box and it echoed, but the figures walking toward him didn’t seem to notice. As they neared, he spotted Sam, limping, blood-colored tear tracks streaming down her face. His heart clenched.

The Dean of this time was muttering quietly, “Think I got a shard stuck in my thigh, dude, hurts like a bitch.”

Sam huffed humorlessly, wiped at her face and stared at her red hands. “Think the blood’s gonna stop any time soon?” 

Her brother glanced at her, his expression shuttered, and he remembered, remembered how much he’d wanted to know her secret. 

“Maybe it stops when you come clean,” he sounded jealous, annoyed.

Sam rolled her eyes, wincing when it seemed to hurt, and Dean laughed at her, still quiet, one hand shoving at her shoulder with the liberated contentment that came after a successful hunt. She smiled back at him, something so lonely and sad on her face that Dean wanted to run from his hiding place and steal her, take her to a time where she was known and loved and missed.

Instead, he let them pass by him, and then slowly followed. The sight of her retreating back felt less terrible now, with so many years to get used to it, and with so much new understanding of why she had to keep walking away.

**\--**

Now he ended up in an old factory building, long winding hallways familiar but alien at the same time. There was a glass wall behind him, a steady repetitive drip echoing through the air.

“Dean!” someone shouted. “Dean! Dean!”

He took off, heart in his throat, feet thudding on the ground as he made it into a big empty room, spotted several bodies hanging from the ceiling. He saw himself, strung up and barely conscious, head lolling and mouth moving senselessly.

Sam had her hands on his face, shaking him, but there was no response. Sam looked around furtively, calculating the nearest exits and what could pass for a weapon, then turned back to his limp body, shaking again.

“You’re not real,” Dean mumbled, weakly trying to escape her grasp. “None of this is.” 

“Dean,” she said, voice cracking, lips pressing against his temple. “Wake up.”

Dean struggled weakly, mumbling again, “I’ll die.”

The heavy bodies hanging around him looked less alive than he did, pale skin stretching over emaciated limbs, ratty hair and sunken eyes. The blood bags hanging next to them were nearly empty, and his stomach churned with the knowledge that they were on the very brink of death, no way to reverse it at this point.

His sister cried again, “Dean, please,” her breathing was erratic, “we gotta go, Dean.”

“S – sorry,” his body grunted weakly into his own chest, head dropping low as Sam let go of it to get a look at his bindings.

“Dean!” her voice echoed through the room, a faint clang in the distance making her jump. She shook him harder. “Dean, Dean!”

His body seemed to fill up a little, his head rose slightly, and he grunted.

“Hey,” Sam whispered, close to his face. “Hey.” Her hands patted him down, and then she pulled the tube out of his throat, huffing at his Auntie Em joke, not getting it. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw the djinn approach from the shadows. He didn’t seem to notice the imposter from the future at all, eyes trained on the back of Sam’s head as she worked at cutting Dean out of the rope. It was glowing blue, eyes shining like beacons, and perhaps to somebody they were. A clean color, the blue that was lighting up the room now, a color of hope. If he found a djinn back in his time, he’d tie his own self up to the ceiling for a chance to live a life where Sam was still breathing. She could hate him there, be disgusted by the sight of him, try to kill him with her bare hands; he’d be okay with it.

“Sam!” the weak and delirious Dean shouted, eyes wide, watching the creature approach. His fear was strange to Dean now, kind of empty, an echo of something real. What did Dean expect back then? What real loss was there to be afraid of - did that Dean even comprehend his own fear? Did he know how much worse it could get?

If the djinn got Sam here, stabbed her with another needle and strung her up beside her brother, she’d die and go to Heaven. Dean would meet her there.

But Heaven was gone now. Sam was in the Cage, for all eternity, and nobody had a stab in the dark of getting her out. The way he broke in Hell, just thirty years in, it was nothing. He hadn’t known pain then.

He almost wished he could jump in the fight, help the djinn out, let it tie them both up and send them to their happy ending. For a second, something came over him, telling him to go, do it, fix what went wrong. They could be up in their shared Heaven within seconds, and Sam would never be in the Pit, she’d never die, Dean would never make his deal, everything bad would be undone, leaving only the good.

Before he could move, the Dean in front of him sunk a knife into the creature, closing the door on the dream almost before it had time to open.

**\--**

Waking up on the floor of his motel room back in 2011 was less jarring than it should have been. He lay there for a while longer, throat working to swallow down the stale taste in his mouth, stomach gurgling a weak complaint. He felt light, like all the sand that had crammed itself in his crevices had fallen through the cracks, leaving him unburdened.

His body felt like it weighed less, skin tighter, bones thinner.

The sounds of outside registered after a minute: a truck speeding by, the laughter of kids far away, a vacuum cleaner powering on somewhere in the building. He sat up slowly. His eyes felt too big for his face, the skin of his eyelids rearranging itself uncomfortably.

He glanced at his clothes, wondering how long it had been since he’d changed. Probably days. Probably longer. He smelled like something dying, like rot and decay. He must have been traveling for the last week at least, putting his last meal at about six days ago. He didn’t feel hungry.

As he stood to force himself into the shower, his joints protested, unused and abused. The herbs he had laid out neatly by the wall were in various states of remainder. He likely wouldn’t have enough yarrow for another trip. The stone floating in his chest dropped lower at the prospect of leaving the room to hunt it down. He knew he needed to eat too, if only to stay alive during the spell.

Freshly clean and shaven, he pulled on a change of clothes, noticed how loosely the jeans hung on him, how his bony shoulders made him look decades younger than he felt. He must not have worn this outfit for weeks, if he was just noticing the changes. He needed to make a trip to a Goodwill, get something that fit.

There was a bar down the street and around the corner, mostly empty on a Tuesday night, just a handful of guys sitting around a booth in the corner and staring at the TV, a few groups of flirting couples here and there. He took two swigs of gin, walked on shaky legs to the pool table, and let himself relax enough to play the part he needed, a few confident pockets to warm up, a smarmy grin when the guys at the booth perked up.

He hadn’t accounted for how tired he was. He played the first few rounds well, cocky and cheerful, goading them as he gained on the first two challengers. But then he must have let something slip, because they realized they were being played, advancing on him together. He tried to get out of it on charm alone, knowing he was in no state for either fight or flight, but several minutes later he was lying penniless on the chunky gravel outside, nose bleeding and face throbbing.

He likely had a cracked rib, which would take ages to heal not just because he had no first aid left, but because he had no money to buy food with to keep his energy up. He resorted to climbing slowly into his Taurus and passing out on one of the queens in his room, sleeping the pain away for as long as it took to stop hurting.

**\--**

Two months later, he stole for the first time since he was nineteen. That time, it had been his last resort, no other way to get money for Sam to eat, no other way to shove down the guilt he felt about everything relating to his sister back then.

Now, he had no time to waste. It had been two months since his last trip, and he needed the yarrow. He slammed the cashier into the wall with strength he didn’t know he had, feeling the limpness that took over the fat body as he passed out, then ran to the register and emptied it, lining his pockets mechanically.

There was a CCTV camera in the corner and in the back of the store, he walked up to each and shot straight at them, not even flinching at the recoil.

The past was calling his name, too sweet to ignore anymore, or ever again. He had to go.

**\--**

The Sam he caught this time was powerful, more toned than she was during most of her life, muscles thick and posture strong. Despite the insecurity that Dean’s attitude toward the demon blood had caused her inside, on the outside she stood confidently, a pride and a purpose coloring her every move.

She had a thin trail of blood running from her nose, a few faint bruises that would get darker soon. He knew where she had just come from, he knew what she was just told.

The honeymoon suite door clicked shut behind her as she took a deep breath of the evening air, tears ripe in her eyes all over again.

 _You’re a monster_ , he heard himself say. An echo, or a vivid memory. _You walk out that door, don't you ever come back._

He was sitting in the car already, poised like an invitation in the passenger seat of the Camry Sam was about to hotwire and speed out of town in.

When she climbed in, she looked angrily at him, processing his face but completely uninterested in it. Jaw clenched, she pressed on the gas and zoomed out of the lot. He didn’t mind, just leaned back against the door with his arm stretched over the back of his seat and watched her profile as she drove. He felt warm. He had a chance to stitch up the cut, to cure the wounds he’d left back then. He wanted to undo it all, but he’d settle for just taking it back. She’d listen, he knew she would.

Miles down the road, maybe tens, maybe hundreds, she finally spoke. “Why do you keep showing up?”

He shrugged lazily, eyes flicking to the empty freeway and then back to her, never sated with the sight. “Want me to stop?”

She jerked to look at him, alarmed. “You do it on purpose?” 

He shrugged again, silent. Myriad emotions flickered over her face as she thought, strong arms stretched out in front of her, long fingers curled over the wheel. Dean swallowed.

“Did you mean it?” He knows what she’s asking, _am I a monster? Will I have to die to protect you from me?_ What Dean meant was always one and the same as what was real. It hurt him, even now, even after all these years, to realize how much she believed that.

“Of course not,” he said gently. Her eyes looked wet. “I shouldn’t have said what I said, it was …” He leaned closer to her, hands wiping at her cheeks and turning her slightly to face him. She aimed bloodshot eyes at him, swollen and haunted. She was so afraid, how had he never noticed how afraid she was? She was just Sammy. No matter what she did, no matter what she sacrificed or what she turned into, she would always be _Sammy_. “We’re family. Nothing can ever change that.”

She sniffled a little, turning back to the road, and he let his hand trail through her hair, grasp her nape and squeeze it a little.

“Sammy, I’m sorry.”

She sobbed, one sudden gasp tearing out of her, and then the car was pulling onto the side of the road, and she was curling herself around the wheel, shaking soundlessly. Her hair was long, unkempt, he figured she’d been forgetting to get it trimmed ever since Dean had come back from Hell, one set of bad news slamming into them after the other.

He pulled her toward him, nose buried in her temple, rubbing his hands over her arms, shushing her as she wet his shirt with her tears. “I’m so sorry, Sammy, I’m sorry.”

At some point, she started nodding into his chest, in time with his words, one nod after “I’m sorry,” two after “I forgive you,” three after “I understand, Sammy, I understand, I get it.”

There were endless pauses where time passed, but he had no idea how much. Eventually, Sam was breathing calmly into his neck, her hair tangled around his fingers and her lips pressed to his skin. “I love you,” she whispered, words they never spoke to each other, words that hit too hard, told too much. “I love you,” she said again after a second, like she’d gathered momentum now and was powerless to stop it. “I love you.”

**\--**

He was removed bodily from the car when a bullet entered his arm and slammed him back into reality. His first thought was piercing fear - did Sammy see him get shot? Was she afraid now, alone again?

Then the pain in his shoulder ratcheted up to a solid eight and made him open his eyes. He was sprawled spread eagle on the motel floor, legs splayed and arm out to his side at an unnatural angle.

Two hunters stood over him, distaste written all over their faces, eyes pointedly studying the calamity of the room, of his life. They looked familiar to him, vaguely, like maybe he’d seen them at the Roadhouse a couple of times, maybe handed them intel on a ghost at a diner once. Simon, his brain suggested. Simon and Eli.

“What,” he wheezed, “the fuck.”

Eli lowered his gun. “Bobby sent us.”

Dean blinked, pain receding slightly but blurring his vision, making him glare at the ceiling in an effort to focus on something. “Bullshit.”

“No, really,” Simon sighed, feet shuffling as he walked closer toward the herbs, and something in Dean’s core protested at that, a screeching _NO_ echoing through his being, but he was powerless to move. Stapled to the ground by the strength of the bullet and the weakness he’d let himself devolve to. It would be a wonder if he could even sit up anytime soon. “He’s concerned. You’ve gotten rid of your phone, removed yourself off the map. The entire hunting network’s been listening with bated breath for a single ping on the radar, but you’re as good as dead.” 

Eli scoffed. “Just about.” He kicked the bowls of ingredients over, mixing them all together and smacking them into the wall. “You need to snap out of this, Winchester. You’re like a druggie, but you somehow look worse.” 

Dean kept blinking at the ceiling.

“This is past pathetic, it’s just plain depressing. Do you know what year it is?”

Dean couldn’t speak.

“You remember the promise you made?”

A low moan wrenched itself out of his throat, making him writhe in torment. 

“Yeah, Bobby said that might happen. You gotta get up, man. You gotta live. It’s what she’d want.”

 _Don't talk about her,_ he thought. _Don't let your fucking brain even think her name_. Firm hands landed on his shoulders, getting a pained mewl out of him as the bullet shifted in the meat of his arm, but he was pulled relentlessly up, slammed onto the couch bodily. Eli leaned over him, eyes slanted a little like Sam’s, he stared at them. Even the wrinkle above his nose reminded Dean of her, that innocent and genuine concern that he loved so much. “The world was saved, Dean. Let that count for something.”

 _But it doesn’t_ , he couldn’t say. It means nothing at all. How can the world be saved if Sam’s not in it? What kind of world is it?

Simon was sitting beside him, rustling with something on his lap, and Dean closed his eyes. Why couldn’t they have come an hour later? It would have given him one more hour with Sam.

A steady hand dug the bullet out of his skin, and he couldn’t protest despite how the pain was swallowing him, stretching him open all over and making him feel flayed. Then he felt himself being stitched up, the low steaming burn of alcohol on the wound. He let it soothe him.

When he opened his eyes again, he was alone in the room, a thick white bandage on his arm and a bottle of pills on the table beside him. The spell would be impossible for a while, the herbs were all in a scorched pile of ashes on the ground, the last vestiges of his hope suddenly evaporated into thin air. On the end of the bed, he spotted a thick stack of money. He might have dreamed it all.

**\--**

He approached the car slowly, every step wringing the air out of him, making it impossible to keep breathing. Sam was sitting on the hood, bright pink lips wrapped around the neck of a beer.

The setting sun cast soft shadows on her face, fuzzy and warm, making her look content rather than terrified and alone. She smiled at him.

“I just talked to you.”

“Yeah, well,” he mumbled. “I’m always going to come back for more.”

She shifted, letting him slot himself between her legs, arms on both sides of her hips as he leaned into her space and tapped his nose against hers. She went cross-eyed trying to watch him, giggled. “Well, you look terrible,” she said, like it was a good comeback. He wanted to stuff every bit of her in the hole inside his chest, wrap her up inside him until she couldn’t escape, until she was him and he was her and they couldn’t be taken apart anymore.

“Did he tell you he loves you?” he whispered against her lips. The scent of cheap beer was clinging to her mouth, mixing with the smell of coming summer and the tang of hot metal under them. “He does.”

Sam set her bottle down and wrapped long arms around his neck, legs bracketing his ribs.

“He loves you so much. He just doesn’t know, he doesn’t realize.”

Sam hummed softly, eyes closed, and listened.

“You have to forgive him,” he begged. Tears were pooling in his eyes and his breath came out warbled, muffled, like he was speaking through cloth. “You have to, please, forgive him.”

Sam started laying kisses on his face, one eyelid, one cheek, tip of his nose, corner of his mouth. He felt salty tears flooding his face, a torrent of regret and pain and loss finally drowning him, years after she left him, years after his world ended. Maybe he’d used enough on the spell to stay here forever. Maybe he’d stretch these last few hours into infinitude.

They kissed languidly, sun-heated metal of the hood scorching their skin and adding sensations to the moments that couldn’t be fabricated, couldn’t be anything but real.

Sam tumbled them off the Impala, whispering an amused apology to her windshield as she grabbed his wrist and dragged him to a secret crevasse in between cars, near the fence, under tarp and shade. It was cooler there, the ground wetter and harder, making the layers of blankets she’d piled there feel like a cloud.

“You knew I’d come?”

She smiled, a mix of emotions playing over her face, and pushed him down onto his back. “I know you.”

 _Do you know you'll die?_ he wanted to ask. Do you know what you’ve done to me?

Her hips settled over his, dragging over him with intent, and her hands bracketed his head on the ground, wet mouth lingering on his skin divinely until he thought he might go insane.

Before long, she undid his belt and pulled it out through its loops in a quick motion that made his mouth water, wondrous at the power housed in his little sister, the strength and beauty and love.

When she sank down onto him, finally, tight heat swallowing him and giving him purpose, he realized maybe he wasn’t supposed to hold her within him at all. She’d had him wrapped around and within her since she was born, a tangle of time and space and feeling that it took her death for him to understand. She'd never left his side, but somehow managed to survive beyond herself, both suffocating what remained of Dean and breathing air into him.

But he was still alive and eternity had dragged itself out in front of him, infinite in its excruciation. He would go back again. He would go back to every week, every day, and every hour, he would relive his entire life, until Sam knew him. Until she looked at what was left of him and _knew_ him, and knew how he loved her, and never wavered in that certainty, never doubted.

He was going to spend the rest of his life lying alone on motel floors, until it killed him.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments make me feel so good, Dean's called me asking for the spell.


End file.
